


An Evening of Passion

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Dany fans don't read, F/M, Post Season 7, Unbeta'd, post boat bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Summary: The dragon queen, seeking to rekindle the passion between herself and the King in the North, decides to surprise him. It does not go as intended.





	An Evening of Passion

Daenerys Stormborn waits for Jon the White Wolf in his royal bedchamber, naked, hoping to rekindle whatever it was they found on the ship.

She’s been waiting for a while. And Daenerys Targaryen is not the sort of woman to be kept waiting. She reclines atop his bed, atop the silvery furs, staring up at the canopy of his four-poster, growing impatient.

It’s not that she expected this to be easy, given the row they’d had when he returned from Beyond the Wall. But she’s now confident that tonight will end the animosity. A good thing, too. It will make unifying the North and the South that much easier.

He had left dinner to take council with his cousin, Lady Stark, who served as his regent while he was gone. Of course Daenerys expected it to take a while, but it had been pitch-black outside for hours now, and they’d been meeting for over a week now. What else is there to go over?

At least his solar has some good wine stocked. Better vintage than she would have expected of his humble tastes, stored in a cabinet by the solar window. She’s poured them both cups. His sits on the bedside table.

If that wasn’t enough to convince her that Jon Snow is every bit as eager to rekindle their passion for each other as she was, there was the other thing she found in the cabinet. A velvet-lined box, in which sat a wreath of twinkling diamonds and moonstones set in white gold to look like snowflakes. A little on-the-nose, but if letting him think his fiery aunt could be tempered by snow will resolve this little schism, then she is more than happy to greet him in bed wearing only this impressive new gift.

Honestly, she’s surprised he’d indulge like this, with the war still not won. But she’s not one to turn down a fine gift.

He’s a good man, and, beneath that gruff, dour exterior, a romantic at heart. She may not love him yet, but she’s sure she can learn to.

At one point, she thinks she hears someone in the solar. But when she peers through the keyhole, she finds it’s some maids, giggling and assembling something. It seems Jon Snow has arranged a romantic night as well. She smirks and amuses herself with thoughts of him searching all of Winterfell for her, only to return to his chambers and find her here. She likes to keep men on their toes.

But it doesn’t take long for her to grow bored again. She’s almost ready to go searching for him herself. But no, she wants to surprise him, and not come off too eager. Daenerys is a queen, and a queen must have her dignity.

Finally, at long last, when she’s nearly fallen asleep herself, she’s jolted awake by the sound of the door opening. And…. yes! Unmistakable, that’s Jon’s voice. Eager, Daenerys arranges herself to her best advantage.

And she waits. Some more. And waits.

What in all the Seven Hells is he doing? At one point, she hears what sounds like…. Singing? Is he singing? And quick footsteps around the solar. Gods, she hopes he’s not like this normally. Apparently, he does odd things when alone. But with all this, she’s confused. Has he been planning a romantic evening or not? Was he waiting for her? Had he sent someone to her chambers?

He’d better bloody well do that thing with his tongue again. Twice, she thinks furiously as she slides beneath his furs. It’s too cold. She’ll slip out when she hears him approach. She almost thinks she hears a woman’s voice. One of the maids, perhaps?

Daenerys barely has time, as it turns out. Because she hears him cry out, “Seven Hells! It’s gone!” And she knows. But he hurries toward the bedchamber door so fast she barely has time to get out from under the furs, and no time to arrange herself in a particularly becoming position. Whatever, she’s naked, what does it matter?

As it turns out, a lot.

There was no way this situation was going to be anything less than utterly humiliating. But not having her legs spread and her arms awkwardly above her head, one hand desperately trying to keep her goblet of wine level, her chin tucked down against her neck, would have been slightly better?

No, she decides, as she takes in the wide eyes and gapes that greet her through the doorway, it wouldn’t have. A further, deliberate attempt at being seductive would have been more embarrassing in its own way.

There are no ways to improve upon this situation.

If the woman had been a maid, here to make sure everything was in place for a romantic evening her king planned for the dragon queen, this would be nothing. What does she care for a servant seeing her? Especially one who would be forewarned of the intended activities of the night?

But the woman is not a maid. The woman couldn’t be less of a maid if she were Daenerys herself.

Oh no, the woman standing behind Jon, mouth and eyes wide with shock, is the Lady of Winterfell herself, Sansa Stark. Wearing a gown of ivory and forget-me-not blue that is far, far more becoming than the dark, practical wools Daenerys has seen her wear thus far. Indeed, with its short sleeves, scooped neckline, and the blue satin roses, it looked like a summer gown. There was a blue rose tucked behind her ear as well.

That the Lady of Winterfell is a beauty is hardly a secret. There was never any question as to why Robert Baratheon wanted her to be the next queen. It was known that at the very first tourney at court that the Starks attended, the overblown Tourney of the Hand, that the champion, Loras Tyrell, honored her with his rose, though she was only a girl of three-and-ten at the time. People said Cersei Lannister especially hated the daughter of Winterfell because she feared that the girl’s looks rivaled her own. The fits of rage that the King in the North famously went in when approached about her hand still didn’t deter would-be suitors. And everyone knew that Petyr Baelish, so infamously calculating and ruthless that even Varys feared him, went mad with his desire for her.

She’s perhaps the only woman whose beauty Dany has heard about as much as her own. When the two women met, the Dragon Queen felt some relief, thinking that the Lady of Winterfell, though lovely, didn’t quite rival her.

Even in her drab dayclothes Sansa’s very striking, but at this moment, she’s downright stunning. Like a rosebud that has finally reached full bloom. Even with her mouth hanging open and her face going red. Daenerys sees it. She understands.

That’s just a fraction of all of this, though.

Certain aspects of Jon’s reaction to learning of his true origins suddenly make a devastating amount of sense.

Daenerys is naked in Jon’s bed, and he doesn’t want her here. He looks downright horrified at the sight of her naked. That’s never happened to her before.

More realization creeps in. Jon has certainly planned a romantic evening. But not for her. Not at all. None of tonight, or any of his nights, in fact, are for her. None of his days, perhaps, either.

But also…

Daenerys’s free hand flies to her neck. To the gems gleaming at her throat. The other hand, the one holding the wine, loses its grip and the cup tips. Ruby liquid spills atop the furs, some on her shoulder, a bit splashes in her hair. The cup clatters to the floor.

Not her cup. Not her wine. Not her necklace. Not her man.

The lady turns away, covering her face modestly. Jon’s eyes drop to the wood beneath his feet. He walks backward wordlessly and shuts the door.

Mortified, Daenerys scrambles off the bed, near tears. She throws on her robe.

How, how was this possible? It was weeks since she and Jon last coupled, yes, and sure, they’d had a vicious row. But… She is the Mother of Dragons! She is not so easily or quickly forgotten and replaced! She haunts the dreams of every man she meets! She always has! Men laid armies, sacked cities, showered her in gold for her favor. And this… this dour-faced bastard from a frozen hellhole, who came to her offering nothing, hand open, he… He goes from bedding her to romancing some frigid ginger?!

Men committed massacres to try to enjoy the very thing she’s freely offered this man. Only for her to somehow be humiliated. She’s the unwanted one. She can’t believe it.

What does Sansa Stark have, anyway? Beauty, yes, but so does Dany. And the woman is nearly as dull and dour as Jon, save for the fact that she seems a bit smug. And so bloody formal and practiced, not a hint of passion in her. Intelligent, sure, but in that uninspired, utilitarian way that made her indistinguishable from the castle’s maester. She clearly thinks well of herself, that one, but she’s withdrawn with all but her closest family. Not to mention, for all her fussing over grain and textiles and roads, Dany is certain she’d go to pieces in the face of true danger. A know-it-all, a martyr with a stick up her arse, Sansa Stark. A prig.

Her sister, at least, had character and true ferocity. Sansa was just cold. Like a limp fish.

What is this woman to the Mother of Dragons?

Daenerys realizes what it was she heard earlier. Jon wasn’t just singing, he was singing for Lady Stark. And those footsteps… They were dancing. Before tonight, Daenerys didn’t think the man capable of singing or dancing, let alone both simultaneously.

But he is when Sansa Stark’s in the room, apparently. Daenerys has never been asked to dance by anyone, ever. Her encounters with Jon in particular had always been aggressive, wordless trysts. She’d taken that for unbridled passion. But perhaps not.

One of the things that attracted her to Jon Snow in the first place was that he didn’t fall to his feet and worship her like so many others. She thought him too much of a man to fall down and worship anyone. 

Apparently, that’s not the case. It was just that he preferred another goddess the whole time. 

How? How can this be?

She tightens the robe about herself, outraged, and storms out. When she enters the solar, that stupid woman actually curtseys. The King in the North has his arm about her waist.

Daenerys ignores them and holds her head high. She’s at the door when he speaks.

“Your Grace!”

“What?!” She spits, barely turning to face him.

He swallows nervously. “The… the jewels?”

Ready to burst into flame, Daenerys goes to unclasp it quickly, then flings it onto the floor. She slams the door as hard as she can behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) No, I don't hate Daenerys (well, not book! Daenerys). If you don't believe me, read any of my other fics, including (or, rather, especially) my Jonsa ones. This one's an outlier to my usual fare.  
> 2) But yes, the show version has officially gotten me to drink the haterade, and this fic is kind of a response to that Because I just cannot with Imperialist Dragon Barbie atm.


End file.
